


petals and petrichor

by cowboylakay



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboylakay/pseuds/cowboylakay
Summary: Charles’ specialty is a mystery that Arthur yearns to know almost as much as he yearns to know him entirely.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	petals and petrichor

Arthur knows how everyone's specialties work.

There were those like Dutch, who could bend and twist words in any which way in their favour, tap into just about anyone’s mind and turn it into mush. There were those like Arthur, whose physical capabilities surpassed everyone else’s and gave them inhuman strength, turning them into powerhouses for any heavy-handed task. Then there were those like John, who the universe favoured for making their specialities less obvious, yet just as strong as those like Arthur and Dutch.

Everyone who had a speciality in camp fit into those three categories. All but Charles.

He made his first guess when he first met him. He was big, bigger than anyone else in the gang (excepting Bill and Pearson, maybe). The sight of him surprised Arthur at first, far too big to be untouched by the forces that granted Arthur his own strength and resilience, so he guessed that Charles was like him. It was only after he saw Charles get overpowered by two people during a bar fight at the saloon in Armadillo that he figured he could be wrong.

It brought him back to square one. Not long after the fight, he came up to Charles and asked him directly.

“My specialty?” Charles repeated, stopping from where he’d been hammering at the hub of the wagon wheel. John looked up in interest from the other wheel, too nosy and curious for his own good, but Arthur didn’t blame him. He wasn’t sure anyone else knew Charles’ power. “Trees, plants, animals— nature, mostly. I don’t really use it, unless I have to,” He said, gathering his hair and smoothing it out on his back. “Don’t have much of a reason to, with you guys.”

John had scoffed after Charles left to chop wood for the fire. “Ain’t nobody got powers with nature. He’s just messing with us.”

“When’d you become the leadin’ authority on specialties?” Arthur asked then, crossing his arms and looking over John’s work.

“Think about it, Arthur. Twenty years or somethin’ in the life, and we’ve never met anyone like him?” John wiped the sweat off his brow, turning the wrench in his hand. “I don’t buy it.”

“That’s nineteen, for you.”

“Don’t you start on that again.”

Arthur thinks about it later on, and Marston’s, unfortunately, got a point. He’s never met anyone like Charles his whole life, despite having met all sorts of people. He wonders if he was just kidding, like John said, though he can’t think of a good reason as to why Charles would hide his real specialty. It wasn't like the rest of them were saints when it came to their specialties— they all equally used it for their own purposes. Dutch used his specialty for conning fools into doing just about anything he wanted. Mary-Beth would use her own specialty for spatial control to weave through any crowd and rob them blind. It makes him think of what could be so bad or so dangerous about Charles' power for him to hide it like that.

Then, on a dreary, quiet day, Arthur wakes up to the clanging of Pearson’s stew pot and a smattering of flowers growing in the dirt next to his cot.

The first thing he does is avoid stepping on them, and the next is to crouch and inspect them. His eyes are blurry and his mind is still catching up to his body’s wakefulness, but they _do_ look like flowers. He wonders if this is one of Trelawny’s tricks again, seeing things that weren’t actually there, but they don’t disappear when Arthur runs his fingers across the petals. After that, he looks for his journal and pencil in his satchel, takes them out, and begins sketching them.

 _Flowers that I’ve never seen before grew next to my bed,_ he writes, eyeing the flowers for another moment before closing his journal and getting up for the day. He puts it out of his mind, figuring he’s just never noticed it before, and continues on with his day.

Their luck wasn’t meant to last, so soon enough, Blackwater happens, then they’re making their way down from the icy mountains after their daring escape from the law, and Arthur’s just about dead on his feet. Everyone’s been through a lot the last couple of weeks, especially after losing some folks along with most of their money, so camp morale is almost at its lowest point. Things seem to start to get a little better when they make it to Horseshoe Overlook, but they’re still dirt poor and far from any sort of country they belong in, so it’s a temporary consolation.

The party they have after Sean’s rescue raises a lot of spirits. Everyone’s a little looser for the night, a little drunker, and a lot happier. They haven’t had good news in a long while, and while they usually don’t throw a party every time someone captured makes it back to camp in one piece, they make an exception this one time. Even Miss Grimshaw is having fun.

Arthur downs the last of his whisky, stumbling down the beaten path to drunkenness, and makes to get up from his spot by the campfire. “I’ll see you boys later, I needa piss.”

“Huh?” John mumbles, near slumped over the bottle in his hand. Bill is passed out on the box he’d been sitting on, despite having been awake and angrily muttering about something minutes before, while Javier continues strumming his guitar from across him and dozing off.

Arthur waves them off and stumbles to the edge of camp past the horses, greeting some of them and almost knocking straight into his own nag. In the darkness of the night, he almost misses Charles sitting on a boulder, watching a grazing doe not ten feet from him.

He wanders over before he even thinks about it, and the doe gallops away the moment he gets too close.

“Arthur?” Charles asks, smiling when Arthur gets closer and shouldering the rifle in his hands. His hair is tied behind his back and reflecting some of the moonlight, flowing down his back like vines. There’s a softness in his expression that Arthur can’t rightly figure out sober, let alone tipsy. He looks pretty, Arthur thinks.

Charles chuckles then, something like bashfulness on his face as he stands from his seat. “Thanks, Arthur. What are you doing out here?”

Aw, crap. His mouth is running again, ain’t it? “I don’t know. Probably to piss, or some such,” He mutters, having lost his previous train of thought. “Why ain’t you join the party?”

He sits down on the ground, unmindful of the tree stump right next to him. Charles smiles at him, patting down the front of his coat as he sits back down on the boulder he was sitting on. “They’re not really my kind of thing, and I don’t want to intrude.”

“‘Intrude,’ he says,” Arthur mutters, scratching at the itch on his thigh. “Y’saved Sean too, ain’t nobody gonna tell you you’re intruding,” He continues, “Fine then. What’s your kinda _thing?”_

Charles looks up at the sky, whether to think about his response or to beg God to free him from this conversation, Arthur doesn’t know. He hums then, “I don’t know. Being out here on my own, among the trees and wildlife. Knowing that things went well today.”

Arthur knows when someone’s indirectly asking him to leave them alone even while drunk, so he stands up, sloppy and shaky like a young buck. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” He says, patting the back of his jeans to get rid of the dirt and brambles hanging from the fabric.

“That’s not what I meant,” Charles tells him, kind eyes betraying embarrassment. He could get lost in those eyes, he thinks and, thankfully, doesn’t vocalise. “I’m... not always very good company, but I like yours.”

“That so,” Arthur mutters quietly, blearily searching Charles’ face. He’s slowly sobering up, so he sits down on the ground before he can lose the liquid courage coursing through his system. It’s nice just hanging out with Charles, to just exist whether in silence or in light conversation.

“Your specialty,” Arthur says after a while, scratching at his collar at the sudden brisk wind that whooshes through. Charles looks at him in question. “Y’said it was... what was it?”

“Nature,” Charles tells him, a small smile appearing briefly on his face. He seems to find Arthur’s stumbling and fumbling endearing; a strange thing, like his infinite patience and easy smiles with Arthur. He’s a strange man all around. “What about it?”

“You ain’t kiddin’ then?” Arthur takes his hat from his head and puts it down on the dirt next to him. The black leather blends into the dark dirt, a sign he’ll have difficulty finding it later on.

“... No?” Charles says uncertainly, looking at Arthur with a confused expression. “Did you think I was?”

“Marston said you was,” He slurs, dragging out the name as he leans against some hard surface he can’t quite make out in the darkness. A tree maybe, or a particularly rough boulder. Whichever it is, he pays it no mind as he struggles to keep his eyes on Charles. “But Marston talks a lotta guff, so I weren’t sure. I think you’re tellin’ the truth, but I just—” He yawns mid sentence, mouth wide as he stretches. “I just ain’t seen it yet.”

Charles smiles fondly at him, cheek scar wrinkling when his smile grows bigger. Arthur can’t seem to catch a break when it comes to looking at Charles; always noticing these little details that makes him feel like he does when he’s out on the trail in the vast, green country of the west, except stronger, more physical, like comparing a light tug to a forceful pull. Something drags him to Charles, wanting to know every part of him as well as he could, wanting to feel that mouth on his, wanting to feel those hands held in his own.

The thoughts shoot through him like spears, even in the warm haze of drunkenness. He’s not quite drunk yet as to be completely blabbering about whatever he’s thinking, but if he’d chosen to drink those three other bottles lined up right next to him awhile ago, he probably would have done something so terribly pathetic and embarrassing that Charles completely ignores his existence afterwards. Still, the feeling burns hot in his chest like the spitting of a train furnace.

“Go to bed, Arthur,” Charles tells him kindly, because Charles is always kind to him, even when he doesn’t deserve it. He can be neutral or blunt, but he always meant it kindly. Arthur wishes he could treat Charles with the same kindness he deserves, but he’s not in the business or the life for kindness. “You could use some rest.”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Arthur argues, despite shutting his eyes and leaning back against the tree-boulder. “Just— doin’ alright.”

“Come on,” Charles tells him, suddenly closer, and it’s his only warning before he’s being hauled up to his feet, arm slung over broad shoulders as his legs start walking of their own accord. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Strong feller, ain’t you?” He grins, leaning into Charles despite the haze slowly dissipating. “Maybe you _was_ lyin’ to me. Maybe your specialty’s super— super strength. ‘Cuz you’re strong.”

“I got that part,” Charles laughs, the amusement of his tone like jewels to Arthur as they near his cot. Everyone’s either too tired or too drunk to look at them, let alone bother them, making the trip short and not too sweet. Gently, Charles helps him onto his cot, once again too kind for his own good, and once again unpaid with kindness. “Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well.”

“Y’know, I think I was— was tryin’ to piss out there,” Arthur says suddenly, turning over in his cot as sleep begins to consume him. “Tryin’ to piss and I end up findin’ you,” He laughs then at a private joke. “Least you was good company even— even if I didn’t say...”

“Didn’t say what?” Charles prompts after some time, looking at Arthur’s face. He laughs quietly then, hiding it behind the back of his hand, and leaves the now-snoring cowboy to his well-earned rest.

When he wakes up the next day, he hardly remembers a thing, but he notices more flowers beside his bed, though the growth seems to be more discreet than the last time. Whereas the flowers were tufted and purple then, they’re small and spread now, little white flowers that grew in a curious pattern. He sketches them all the same, spending his morning that way to distract himself from his throbbing headache and the feeling that he said things he shouldn’t have said.

The days after the party are a terrible blur. Their time staying in Horseshoe Overlook was always meant to be short, he knew, but after the shootout in Valentine with Cornwall’s men and breaking out Micah from the jail in Strawberry, their time was cut much shorter. They had to move further east, which brought them to a place Charles found called Clemens Point, an open spot of land hidden by a forest and bracketed by Flat Iron Lake. 

Then, not even an hour into their settling, Dutch manages to involve themselves in the problems of a nearby sundown town called Rhodes, caught in a war between two inbred and slaving families called the Grays and the Braithwaites. Running from lawmen in one state and playing deputy in another— all part of Dutch’s grand plan.

It’s a right mess, Arthur thinks. They’re heading further east in search of one big take, but where does it end? He thinks of the money they left behind in Blackwater, of the large, groundbreaking number merely tucked away in some part of town. His mind swirls at the fact that such a big amount is just sitting in town, waiting to be picked up by them, or the Pinkertons, or some curious, lucky fool.

Arthur buries his head in his hands and sighs. Everything is just so much. They’re further east than they’ve ever been before, and it worries him. He wonders how long they’ve got before big cities and _civilisation_ swallow them whole and spit them out like shit in a man’s mouth. As he thinks about the hijinks Dutch and Hosea are undoubtedly wanting to get up to in Rhodes, and the trail they left transporting twenty people to their camp for now, he wonders how long it’ll take before the Pinkertons catch wind and hunt them all down. _Least we ain’t in the swamps, yet._

“Arthur,” He hears someone call out. Lifting his head, he sees Charles looking at him, a worried expression on his face. “You alright?”

He’s struck momentarily by how Charles cares, always seemingly able to tell when Arthur’s in a mood. He’s got a knack for reading people, but it seems like he actively pays attention to Arthur. Or maybe he’s just deluded himself into thinking Charles cares for him more in order to excuse his own... affections. Whichever it is, he puts it aside to respond.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m...” He sighs again, rubbing at his forehead with his fingers. He’s not alright, if he’s honest, hasn’t been for awhile now. Since after Blackwater, maybe, or maybe even before it. “No, not really.” He owes Charles that much, for taking the time to ask him earnestly.

Charles’ expression softens as he looks over Arthur, searching for something. Then, he runs a finger down the bowstring of the bow slung over his shoulder. “You wanna go hunting with me? There’s boar in those plains close by, and I think Pearson’s tired of venison.”

Arthur smiles, warmth spreading through his core almost instantaneously. “I saw them,” He says, taking a moment to appreciate Charles. “Sure. I’ll go get my bow.”

They meet by the horses, bold Splash and steadfast Taima, not long after. Mounting up, they ride out to the location Charles told him about, a beautiful patch of land with various kinds of shrubbery and flora decorating the vibrant grass. Arthur breathes in the clean air of northern Scarlett Meadows, listens to the chirping of birds and, in the distance, the crying of boars.

“We should walk the rest of the way,” Charles says, snapping him out of the calm reverie he’d been in. “Let’s leave the horses here.”

They end up tracking and hunting two boars in silence, and Arthur appreciates it immensely. Out here, surrounded by open plains and wildlife, he feels like he can think and breathe without worrying. After skinning the boars and tucking the meat away in cheesecloth, the sun has begun to set, and while they weren’t too far from camp, they knew the dangers of traveling through Lemoyne at night, even for two capable, armed men like themselves.

With Charles handling the horses, Arthur sets out to set up their camp for the night, unrolling their bedrolls on opposite sides of the campfire, pitching a grill over the burning wood. Splash stops her whickering and settles down after Charles feeds her a sugar cube, causing Arthur to smile at the both of them. No matter which horse it was in camp, Charles seemed to be a welcome presence for all of them, the Count included. Splash isn’t a very trusting girl herself, aware of her large stature and often utilising it to get others to back away from her, but she’s been nothing but decent to Charles since Arthur got her.

Later on, after their small dinner of canned beans and salted venison, along with a bottle of whisky shared between them, they sit under the stars with nothing but the trees, the wind, and each other for company.

“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” Charles asks, but despite his words, his tone is inviting, not pressuring. Giving Arthur a chance to speak his mind, little as it may be, but letting him say no all the same. A gift, he is.

“I guess it’s just...” Arthur breathes in, rests his arms on his knees, and looks at the fire until he feels his eyes tickle. “I don’t know. We’ve been in tougher spots before, but headin’ east...” He trails off, picking at his nails. “It ain’t safe for a lot of folk. It ain’t wise.”

After a moment, he sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just worried.”

“I understand,” Charles says, the sound coming like a deep rumble in his chest. Something about it soothes Arthur; he’d always been steadfast since the day he met him, calm and collected, unlike any of the other men in camp. Where they run hot, Charles seems to run warm, ready for anything but careful and thorough. He admires that about Charles, along with a lot more aspects.

“You know, I keep seeing these flowers,” Arthur says suddenly, recalling the flowers beside his cot those times before. He carefully watches Charles’ expression, scooting a little closer to the fire to do so. “Know anythin’ about that?”

Charles hums in thought, looking directly at the fire. Arthur smiles then, getting up from his seat and sitting right next to Charles. He can’t recall the finer details of their conversation during Sean’s party, but he remembers asking him about his specialty and never getting a straight response. At this distance, he can feel the hair spilling over Charles’ shoulders tickle his arms.

“If it ain’t— strange,” Arthur begins, briefly considering that it is pretty strange to ask this of anyone, let alone someone like Charles, “I’d like to see it. Your specialty, I mean.”

“Okay,” Charles says after a short silence, eyes fixed on Arthur when he does. Arthur tries to not think about their closeness, how he can feel Charles’ body heat next to him and the fabric of his shirt against the hairs of his arm. Instead, he tries to focus on the fist he procures, curled loosely into itself as the gentle scent of petrichor wafts from the edges. It’s pleasant, Arthur thinks, both the scent and being here with Charles.

Charles opens his palm and reveals flowers growing from the space of his hand, a small growth of small blue and pink flowers, seemingly growing from the surface of his palm. Arthur watches, transfixed, and reaches out tentatively to touch the petals, breathing in sharply in surprise as he inspects them.

“Goddamn,” Arthur whispers, eyes wide as he breaks into a laugh. “You weren’t kiddin’. This— this is amazing!”

He looks up at Charles then, air escaping him at the sight like the snapping of a branch. Charles is looking at him with an expression he’s never seen before, with wide eyes that he knows he could lose himself in and with parted lips he wishes he could explore with his own. He leans in slightly, closer now than ever before, thrumming with anticipation and nervous energy. He can feel Charles’ calm, too measured breaths at this distance.

“What do they mean?” Arthur asks quietly, voice hoarser as he searches Charles’ eyes. He watches him swallow, tongue flitting out between his lips slightly and wetting them. Arthur watches the action, breathes in carefully, and _wants._ “The flowers,” He adds unnecessarily, more to settle some of his nerves than anything else.

He wets his own lips, watches the way Charles eyes him as he does so, the warm brown of his eyes shrinking to a thin line around the black. “Lobelias,” Charles whispers back, lowering his flower-covered hand to his side. He shifts his weight forward slightly, then his free hand is reaching out to remove Arthur’s hat. “And kiss-me-quicks.”

Arthur looks at him one more time, meets that wanting stare, and presses his lips against his. _For longer than quick, I hope,_ Arthur thinks as he places his hand on Charles’ neck. Charles kisses back, with the intensity and focus that he does anything else, leaning into Arthur’s space and curling his fingers through his hair. Arthur loses himself in the sensation, loses himself in Charles, and wants more.

They break apart for air, panting heavily when they do. Arthur laughs then, cradling Charles’ face in his hands as Charles laughs too, peppering kisses all over Arthur’s face like they aren’t wanted murderers across the country. Charles kisses him this time, want and desire pouring from all parts of them. Just as Arthur pulls him in by an arm on the back of his neck, Charles pushes forward, sending the both of them down to the ground with quiet grunts and laughter.

“How— how long?” Arthur asks, a stupid grin on his face as he lies in the dirt, looking at Charles resting his chin on his chest from between his legs. “How long’ve— y’know,” He fumbles, giddy and gleeful like a young beau. He runs his thumb across Charles’ cheekbone, admiring this face that he’d been gifted to hold by God or the universe or whatever higher power gave him this.

“For some time now,” Charles says, pressing a kiss to the hand gently wandering over his scarred cheek. “Two, three months?”

“You didn’t think to mention any of that to me?” Arthur laughs a little incredulously, remembering the first time he felt he wanted to hold Charles the way he holds him now. “We’ve both been a pair of fools.”

“That we have,” Charles grins, moving up a little to kiss Arthur again, like he can’t get enough of him. “I guess we’ll have to make up for it.”

“Guess we’ll have to,” Arthur repeats, grinning brightly, and loses himself in Charles.

Tomorrow, when they return to camp and part ways with hidden kisses and soft laughter unbefitting of men of their standing, Arthur will be unable to keep Charles off his mind. Tomorrow, before he goes to sleep, he’ll see the blue and red salvias hanging from a neglected corner of his wagon and realise Charles feels the same way too.

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is a powers au
> 
> i’m [lakay](https://cowboylakay.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
